In my nightly vigils the same thing happened; so that I often wished, like one of my predecessors, to have a leathern jerkin made, and to get accustomed to writing in the dark, so as to be able to fix on paper all such unpremeditated effusions.

It had so often happened to me that, after composing some snatch of poetry in my head, I could not recall it, that I would now hurry to my desk and, without once breaking off, write off the poem from beginning to end, not even taking time to straighten the paper, if it lay crosswise, so that the verses often slanted across the page.

In such a mood I preferred to get hold of a lead pencil, because I could write most readily with it; whereas the scratching and spluttering of a pen would sometimes wake me from a poetic dream, confuse me, and so stifle some trifling production in its birth."[45] [Footnote 45: The translation of this passage is by Miss Minna Steele Smith .-- _Poetry and Truth from My Own Life_ (London, 1908.)] Poetry produced as here described may certainly be regarded as part of the poet's "confession," but in the circumstances of its origin it is a world apart from the poetry composed in the fashion described in the passage preceding.

The poet here does not coolly say to himself: "Go to, I will make a poem to relieve my feelings"; he sings, to quote Goethe's own expression, "as the bird sings," out of the sheer fulness of his heart, which insists on immediate expression.[46] True it is that Goethe, like all other poets, frequently wrote under no immediate pressure of inspiration, but to affirm this of the highest efforts of his genius is at once to contradict his own testimony and to misinterpret the conditions under which genius produces its results.
[Footnote 46: In a letter to W.von Rumohr (September 28th, 1807), Goethe calls "unaufhaltsame Natur, unueberwindliche Neigung, draengende Leidenschaft" the "Haupterfordernisse der wahren Poesie." In two of his _Zahme Xenien_ Goethe has expressed his opinion on the necessity of inspiration in poetic production:-- Ja das ist das rechte Gleis, Dass man nicht weiss, Was man denkt, Wenn man denkt: Alles ist als wie geschenkt.
All unser redlichstes Bemuehn Glueckt nur im unbewussten Momente.
Wie moechte denn die Rose bluehn, Wenn sie der Sonne Herrlichkeit erkennte!].